


Puzzle Pieces

by SilverCyanide (LemonFairy)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Depression, Gen, Kink Meme, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 14:32:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemonFairy/pseuds/SilverCyanide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire should leave. He should leave, get out of Joly and Bossuet's hair, not impose himself on them when he wants to do nothing but curl into bed and hurt himself. The only problem is, they won't let him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Puzzle Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: "grantaire used to self-harm. enjolras (or jehan or combeferre or any ami, really) finds out.
> 
> except he only finds out because grantaire's had the world's worst week and is a hairs-breadth away from a relapse and basically breaks down in response to a casual "hey, you okay?".
> 
> cue much comforting and cuddling and wrist massages."
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING for semi-graphic self harm thoughts and self-loathing.

Everything is terrible. That’s the only idea that sticks with Grantaire as he sits curled in the back of his afternoon lecture and tries not to scream. He gave up trying to pay attention before he even walked in to this ridiculous, meandering class, where the lectures aren’t focused but the professor takes careful attendance for points. But suddenly everyone around him is shifting, and Grantaire looks up to the realization that class is over.

Class is over for the day. It’s only Wednesday, he’s got two more days to go, but class is over and Grantaire is going to stand up and force his feet to work until he can go back to his room and hide from the tight, tingling anxiety and self-hatred that’s been chasing him since Sunday night. Because that’s the goal: hide from this, shirk it, keep himself tightly clothed and away from the sight of bare skin and old, stretched scars, lessen the temptation in one of the only ways he knows how.

(The only problem is, he’s not quite sure he can do it. Already, the itch is pressing harder—he’ll be alone, no one will know, something more intense than the desk edge he’s been pressing into his arms the past hour, and much much better but no, no he can’t, but—)

“Grantaaaaaaire.” The voice is light and playful and—Bossuet. Yeah, that’s who that is. Grantaire looks up at him, trying to make his feet work so he can stand up, and he watches the concern knit on Bossuet’s face. When Grantaire flops back into his seat, surely looking as pathetic as he feels, Bossuet reaches out for him and tugs him up with surprising gentleness. Grantaire tries to stand on his own but just thuds against his friend. Bossuet’s hand is warm on his back.

“Hey there,” he says, his voice a lot more gentle than a moment ago. “What’s going on?”

With much effort, Grantaire pulls himself back to stand on his own. He jams his hands into his pockets, eyes angled down, and shrugs. “Nothin’,” he replies, and picks up his bag—it feels like he’s stuffed it with bricks. “I should, um, go.” He makes to walk past Bossuet, but it fails: Bossuet grabs his forearm and Grantaire doesn’t have the energy to pull away.

“Grantaire?”

Grantaire sighs. “Look, I don’t want to talk about it, okay, because if I talk about it, I won’t be able to _stop_ and I’m not—I shouldn’t…” One hand shoots out of Grantaire’s pocket to grip at his own forearm, nails biting in even through the fabric of his hoodie, and it’s too much for Bossuet _not_ to notice.

“Come back with me?” he asks, eyes kind. “Joly should be home. We can all hang out.”

Grantaire knows he should say no. He knows he needs to just go be by himself, needs to stop bothering people and being a burden who can’t even fucking quell the urge to slice his wrists open. But the words don’t come, and the energy’s not there, so he lets Bossuet steer him out of the lecture hall and all the way back to their flat.

Grantaire doesn’t remember much of the walk there, but he does recognize the concern and lack of surprise that graces Joly when they enter. The two of them flop on the couch, Bossuet disappearing for a moment; Grantaire drops his head to his hands, eyes squeezed shut. He feels Joly’s thin hand gently rubbing his back.

“Here.” Bossuet reappears and drops down next to him, and when Grantaire lifts his head a smidgen he sees the bottle of water being offered to him. Grantaire tries to take it—he really does—but his hands are shaking and the whole thing clatters uselessly to the floor.

“Sorry.” The word is barely a breath. Grantaire feels like he’s choking. Bossuet and Joly are both much too close to him and yet also too far away. With nothing else to do, he springs up and paces the room, strides harsh.

“Grantaire—”

“I can’t—I—I’m sorry, you don’t want me here, I can’t—I can’t do anything, I’m fucking _useless_ and I can’t even… articulate whatever you want, because all I can do is spend whatever fucking stupid miniscule shreds of will power I somehow have miraculously managed to maintain, I have to use them to not—not find a knife or tear apart a beer can or smash a mirror so that I can carve lines and words into my arms and legs again which is, quite frankly, all I’ve wanted to do for the past three days and now—“ He cuts off, kicking the wall in frustration. It leaves a mark. “Fuck, I should go, I shouldn’t—I’ve ruined this too now, I’m sorry, I’ll pay for damages whenever that comes back, I’ll just—”

“—stay right here,” Joly says firmly. He’s suddenly right beside Grantaire, and his grip on Grantaire’s bicep is surprisingly strong as he leads Grantaire back to the couch. Bossuet has disappeared again, but he appears a second later with an armful of blankets, which he dumps unceremoniously atop Grantaire. Grantaire laughs, a disbelieving bark.

“Wh—”

“Do you want me to tell you bad jokes?” Joly offers before Grantaire can say anything else, so completely genuine Grantaire actually chuckles.

“No,” he says, voice hoarse. “No, it’s um—it’s fine.” He’s rubbing absently at his wrists, trying to make the tightness that gathers there fade, but stops as soon as he realizes it draws Joly’s gaze. He tries to tuck his arms away again, but Joly tentatively grabs his hand.

“Will it help?” he asks softly, and Grantaire shrugs—sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t. Joly takes that as permission. With meticulous doctor’s hands, Joly presses his thumbs against one of Grantaire’s wrists, working slow, gentle circles into it. Bossuet has picked up a few of the blankets from the mass he dropped atop Grantaire and is now carefully tucking them around him, like perhaps if he builds a proper nest around Grantaire he can keep him safe from himself.

It’s absolutely ridiculous.

Grantaire has never felt more touched.

“I—“ There are a thousand things he should say, a hundred he actually wants to, and none of them come out. He tries thrice more before giving up; neither of his friends pushes him. Instead, Joly switches on the crappy television they’d gone hunting for a few months back, using the cartoons as background noise, and then starts on the other wrist. It does help today, though Grantaire isn’t sure if it’s the motion, the distraction, the fact that it’s Joly, or a combination of it all. He feels warm and less terrified and perhaps just a bit less angry at himself and the world. Slowly, he relaxes, Bossuet warm against him and humming softly; once Joly finishes, making a soft, satisfied noise under his breath, he curls up on Grantaire’s other side.

The sit in the semi-silence for a while, until Grantaire mutters, “Thank you.” Bossuet’s shoulder presses against his own.

“I’m sorry we didn’t know earlier,” Joly says. Grantaire shakes his head.

“No one does. Did.” He shrugs. “It’s—I mean, it’s not a big deal, it’s just—I wouldn’t wanna bug you guys with it.” Joly’s brow furrows, and Grantaire can hear the phantom scolding, but Bossuet beats him to it.

“It’s a big enough deal and you’re never botherin’ us.” Grantaire bites his lip and averts his eyes. “We’re you’re friends,” Bossuet adds, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “This is why we’re here—to help you out.”

Grantaire nods half heartedly, more so they will stop saying kind things he does not deserve than because he believes them. But Joly taps Grantaire’s temple gently until he looks up.

“We’re serious,” he says, voice soft but firm. “We’re your _friends_ , Grantaire—and helping each other out is pretty much part of the friend contract.” Bossuet nods in agreement.

“Yup, you signed on the dotted line when we met, and now you have to pay the price,” Bossuet says cheerfully, and he grins with all his teeth. “We accept payment in the form of covering for us when we run late from surprise sex, wine and video games nights, and especially leaning on us when you’re having a rough time.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes a little and wants to protest, because maybe that will keep the tears he can feel building from actually rolling, and Joly sticks his tongue out. “Plus, hey, it could _always_ be worse,” Joly says, elbowing him playfully in the ribs. “Like—did I ever tell you about the guy I know who got hit in the head with a can of soda? Because that hurts—he was just lucky it was a soft drink.”

The deadpan lasts all of a second before Joly bursts out laughing at his own pun. Grantaire follows him over that brink, laughter bubbling up his throat, though he pushes Joly off the couch in shame as well. “That was _horrible_.”

“Awww, c’mon, I’m pretty sure you needed one,” Joly says, grinning ear to ear. “I mean, it’s been a while, and we both know that seven days without a pun makes one weak.”

“I hate you so much,” Grantaire mutters, wiping away the remaining tears of laughter. Joly beams at him, and Bossuet wraps an arm around his shoulders. Grantaire feels warm all over in the best way, and when Joly responds, “Right back at ya, Capital R.”, it does not sting at all.

Next time, Grantaire thinks to himself, as Joly continues to procure terrible puns for all of their enjoyment. Next time he’s fallen into a terrible day, he will definitely come here.


End file.
